a reprint sort of a week...

i feel a mute button coming on. nothing personal. i promise.

here's something i posted when esmé was nearly three. she's now nearly five, but not-so-much has changed. she strolled into the kitchen a few days ago, waved to all of us, and exclaimed HIYA, CANCER!

she is not an oncologist. she just plays one at recess.

anyhoo. here goes...

esmé's learned a new parlor trick.

let's be honest. developmentally, esmé isn't exactly setting the world on fire.

she's not yet potty-trained. she doesn't wholeheartedly embrace basic societal expectations. like sharing. it certainly wouldn't hurt if she stopped using naughty compound words, either. every number in esmé's world seems to be three, she may be a wee bit color-blind, and her short-term memory is crap.

but this new skill o' hers? i don't mean to brag, but it's fabulously embarrassing.

our story begins like every classic fairy tale. once upon a last week...blahblahblah...swimsuit search...blahblahblah...why is my bum so plump...blahblahblah...transvestite...blahblahblah...and they lived awkwardly ever after.

allow me to fill in the blahs.

so i'm next-door dressing room neighbors with the loveliest transvestite ever. he and i had a mini-conversation that included the words serendipity, karma, my bum, and michael kors. swimsuit after swimsuit. my mom and my girlies three oohing and ahhing at all the wrong moments.

boobies pop out? ooh! bikini bottoms wedgie my bum? ahh!

but the guy in the next room was having much better luck, judging from the squeals. {his.} plus, the saleswoman was beyond attentive to his unique needs.

truthfully, he was a sweetheart. appreciative. effusive. a tad unsure.

which is exactly when my sweetheart of a mom jumped in.

that one looks great! ever-so-encouragingly.

you think? one finger twirling a synthetic strand of his sandy-colored hair, one hand high on his hip. toned legs apart, body angled, head tilted. the perfect supermodel swimsuit pose.

well played, mister lady.

definitely! i'd buy it, if i were you! i looked at her and thought she was insane...albeit refreshingly open-minded and ever-so-oblivious to ever-so-obvious bulges. just lose those heels!

oh, yes! he agreed, with a giggle. the heels are for the dress. flip-flops for the beach!

all this time, esmé was watching. listening. back and forth. just waiting for the completely inappropriate appropriate moment.

what's him's name, grammy?

uncomfortable glances all around, which mémé ignored. and no answer. which mémé did not ignore.

WHAT'S HIM'S MAN'S NAME?

my mom just shook her head at esmé. confused and wondering why in the world her granddaughter thought this lovely woman was a man.

the poor dude-looks-like-a-lady sort of moonwalked out of esmé's scrutiny. sadly, he did not buy the suit.

grae, mortified, walked away and pretended to be not-a-part-of-this-family.

and lill plugged her nose and clamped her mouth closed to keep her giggles from escaping. which resulted in some ill-timed wind.

and esmé realized she'd just told - unbeknown to her - a killer effective joke. one that cleared the room, even.

WHO'S THAT MAN?! she yelled joyfully to no one. over. and. over. and. over.

we usually try to ignore such naughtiness. it's a phase, don't you think? but our girlie is tenacious and observant and loveslovesloves a good joke. at someone else's expense. {insert glare at uncle sugar for this genetic flaw. while you're at it, also insert pleased smirk on uncle sugar's face.}

even-especially when she spies a manly-looking lady, points with her middle finger, and asks, him's a man?

it may soon become necessary to address this situation. perhaps an occasional we don't call out transvestites in this family! will do. fingers crossed.

mémé. our wild little girlie. not-so-much interested in setting the world on fire. but, man, is she lighting up ours.

linzie hunter prints, as introduced by simple lovely...quite simply, the loveliest blog in my little world. {see jos! i adored you even two years ago!}